


The Answer Ultimate and Appropriate

by MotherGoddamn, Rebness



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherGoddamn/pseuds/MotherGoddamn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/pseuds/Rebness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1933 and America has slipped into the Depression. The world that Stiles Stilinski knows gets more dangerous and desperate day by day, but Stiles is about to find out just deadly it can be. And just how seductive. [Bonnie and Clyde AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is a rewrite of an uncompleted story for another fandom, one that we felt was not working in that arena. This is a complete rewrite and update in line with TW characters etc. We hope you enjoy!

_‘Either move or be moved.’ -_ Ezra Pound

 

  _Lamont, California, 1933_

 

‘Those Greenberg boys have been stealin’ their papa’s apples again,’ said Mr. Finstock. He gave a nod of satisfaction as a howl of pain drifted from the nearby farmhouse. ‘That’ll teach him,’ he said.

Stiles sat down heavily on the steps leading up to _Stilinski & Sons Convenience Store. _‘This – _this_ is the news of the day?’ He gave Mr. Finstock a resentful look; he’d been tricked out of leaving the cool darkness of the store into the relentless summer heat to listen to the sound of Mr. Greenberg beating his no-good sons about their heads. ‘I can’t even _see_ anything.’

‘But you can hear ‘em all right,’ said Finstock, pointing to the farm a little way down the road. ‘If all these goddamn trees weren’t in the way…’ he gestured across the dirt road to the fenced-off orchard, listening out for more shouting. The farmhouse was silent, and he stared resentfully back at the store, where the sad lone gas pump on the garage lot next to the store waited for one of its half-dozen daily customers to arrive.

Stiles swiped at a fly which was circling the porch lazily. ‘I don’t want to see them. Greenberg’s a real whacky, you know.’ He frowned. ‘Why isn’t there ever anything _exciting_ in this godforsaken backwater?’

‘You think that because you’re from Bakersfield that you know exciting,’ said Finstock. ‘Well, this ain’t and you ain’t there now.’

‘Oh, don’t I know it,’ muttered Stiles quietly, although not quietly enough, for Finstock shot him a dark look. ‘I’m not asking for the world. Just-- for _something_ to happen. Something other than listening to the Greenbergs caterwaul, that is.’

‘You don’t even know you’re _born_ , you child,’ said Finstock. ‘You’d be runnin’ for your life if you were in LA or New York...’

Stiles started. ‘Shootings? Why, has something happened?’’ He leant forward, his interest piqued. ‘Dillinger?’

Mr. Finstock nodded. ‘Sure has. Miss Jones said all the wireless been squawking about it all morn---’ He came to a stop and looked up at him. ‘Ah, ah-- don’t blow your wig, now. This ain’t for virgin ears. You mind me now. You nice folks got it good here.’

He hefted the sack of potatoes he’d bought from the store onto one shoulder as if it weighed no more than a baby, marked Stiles’ impressed stare, and puffed out his chest proudly. ‘But I bet you didn’t know somethin’ right exciting’s coming along to Lamont soon.’

Stiles scratched his nose. ‘We don’t need a circus when my brother’s about,’ he said blandly.

‘It ain’t no circus. It’s a _storm_.’

He stood up, wiping the dust from his jeans as he did so. ‘Oh, a _storm_! Not even a _hurricane_ , they can’t be bothered stopping by to say hello in a place like this.’ He saluted at Mr. Finstock. ‘You have a _nice_ day, now.’

‘What’s wrong with you, boy?’ he hollered after him. ‘You’re starting to rile me like that Greenberg fool!’

 

* * *

 

 

Night skulked along, trailing in the wake of a hot summer’s day which didn’t want to leave.

The Stilinski’s house was set back about quarter of a mile from the convenience store, so that not even the occasional sound of a car broke the silence. It was hard to remember a time when the house had been filled with laughter, the smell of good, home-cooked food and Melissa placing a record on her beloved gramophone, taking up John’s hand and dancing with him around the small kitchen. Hard to remember John’s good-natured laughter, his voice low and soft, and his battered heart mended by Melissa’s love.

The record player was _hers_ and it remained _hers_ even in death; four years on, it lay gathering dust in a corner of the parlour. Stiles and Scott loved music – it was the one interest they shared - and as they knew their father could not bear to listen to the old records, they would wait until he had left for work before playing the gramophone.

One day, John had come home early and even though that Argent girl was there, even though she was the preacher’s granddaughter and even though John never lost his temper in front of anyone, he had snatched the recording of _Are You Lonesome Tonight_ from the player and smashed it over his knee.

Later, Scott had said that he was certain that if Allison hadn’t been there, John would have punched him to the floor. It wasn’t fair, Scott had said tearfully, Melissa was _his mother_ , Melissa was _his blood_ , and that record had been a gift from him to her and now it was gone. But they never talked about it again. And music was never played in that house again.

'Stiles, do you have to do that at the table?' muttered John, not even glancing up from his paper. 'Damn paper gets everywhere.' He turned the page, grunting as he read the headline.  'You're going to be late for your shift at the cafe tonight. Argent don’t pay ya to make art.’

Stiles placed the scissors to the side, carefully patting down Eliot Ness’ face onto a page of his beloved scrapbook. 'Allison's on tonight,' he answered as he smoothed down the edges.

'Then help Scott at the gas station, or somethin'. John turned the page. 'Comin' on summer, people be fixing up to head out of the city while this heat holds up.'

'But I'm going into town! I already arranged it with Allison! The new Paul Muni--' he caught himself; his father didn’t approve of this influx of gangster flicks. He thought them tawdry and unrealistic, most likely from his many years as a sheriff back in Bakersfield '—uh, the new Joan Crawford movie is showing and I was going to meet up with Heather and—‘

'Stiles.' John lowered the paper and fixed him with a stare. 'I ain't having you waste all your diner money on every single flick that comes to town. I already told you about this and I ain't telling ya again. You boys can’t be relying on me to pay our way out of everythin’ now, not with Roosevelt breathin’ down our necks and the farm being a great big bust.'

'I _know_ that, dad, and don’t I show it? I was in that store at the crack of dawn today and now you want me to get back down there? I promised Heather--!’

'I don't give a lick if you promised Roosevelt a front row seat and all the potatoes you can carry. I said _no_ , Stiles. Now put away that fool ridden book and get yourself to work.' He returned to his paper, a headline about Germany's new commissioner glaring back at Stiles, and muttered, 'Those Warner Brothers filling your head with nonsense, no doubt.'

Humiliation crashed through Stiles as he felt angry tears rushing to his eyes and blinked them away. It wasn't fair. If it was Scott with his stupid baseball cards, his father wouldn't say a word. He never dismissed _Scott's_ interests.

Melissa hadn’t been Stiles’ birth mother, but he had never missed her company more keenly than in that moment. The rush of grief dizzied him as if he’d been dealt a physical blow; he raised his head to say something cutting to John, but the words died on his lips when he recognised the old melancholy gaze of his father.

‘Dad,’ he said quietly.

‘Mmm?’

‘It’s hard on me, too.’

His father did not immediately answer, and Stiles braced himself for an explosion. When John finally lowered the paper, his voice was carefully scrubbed of emotion. ‘Get on down to that store, son.’

Stiles slammed the clippings book shut, the screaming crime headlines disappearing behind the red bound leather. He clutched it to his chest. ‘Can’t anything prosper in this house!’ he snapped, slamming the door shut before his father could react.

 

* * *

 

‘She does this thing with her lips, you know, when she’s mad.’ Scott shook his head in wonderment. ‘She purses them all pretty, like she’s in _Vogue_ or something.’

‘Mmm.’

‘And have I ever told you about her laugh? I’ve never heard anything like it. She just seems so—other worldly compared to all those dames at school, I swear, Stiles, Allison’s gonna—Stiles?’

‘Mmm. Yeah, she’s sweet.’

Scott put down the jack he was cleaning and leaned in close. ‘I knew it,’ he said.

Stiles started, to see him so near. ‘What?’

‘You know,’ said Scott with a sly look. ‘I’ve seen it a thousand times and I’m never wrong, am I?’

Stiles frowned. ‘About _what_?’

‘You’re dizzy with the dame, ain’t ya?’

Stiles gave him a tolerant look. ‘Heather?’

‘What! She’s cute!’

He grimaced. ‘She’s like a sister to me, Scott.’ He leant against the counter. ‘She’s a nice sort of girl, but I’m not interested in her that way.’ Scott’s mouth fell so quickly that Stiles laughed. ‘What’s with you tonight? Why do you care?’

His brother shrugged defensively. ‘I can’t I be sad for my little brother?’

‘I’m older than you.’

Scott shrugged again. ‘You know what I mean,’ he muttered. ‘There’s so many gals and...’ he trailed off. He wandered down the aisles, wiping at dust or fixing the produce with a meticulousness that was not typical of him. ‘You think dad doesn’t care about-- you think that he doesn’t _see_ , you know...’

‘I don’t know,’ said Stiles heatedly. ‘I don’t know if it’s escaped your attention, but he isn’t sharing a whole lot with me these days.’ He gave Scott a hateful look. ‘Maybe if I showed him some baseball cards or somethin’...’

Scott ignored the jibe, and Stiles felt the shame crest within him at that. 'You know, you should make it official or something.' Scott wasn't looking at him, leaning against the door frame and staring out at the distant lights of Lamont. ‘You can’t spend your life mooning over Lydia Martin, you know. She’s the most popular dame at school!’

'I'm not mooning over her!' Stiles knocked at the counter indignantly. 'I’m simply keeping my calendar free in case she comes to her senses.’ Stiles glanced away coyly. ‘Then again maybe you’re right. Maybe I _should_ start courting. Gee, I wonder if Allison is free tom—‘'

‘Wait, _my_ Allison?’

Stiles raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s not _your_ Allison.’

Scott spread his hands. ‘But she could be! No! I veto this!’

‘But, Scott! Don’t you want me to be happy?’ He clapped his hands together. ‘I yearn for her! I burn for her! With every fibre of my loins I wish to _devour_ her and clutch her womanly bosom to my chest!’

‘Who’s the poor girl so I can send her a warning telegram?’

Stiles froze. No. He hadn’t even heard the bell jingle. Damnit, he had told Scott to look at that thing. ‘Lydia. Lydia! Hello. You look---enchanting!’

She glanced over him coolly, before flipping her hair over her shoulder. ‘Hmph.’ With a dismissive wave of her hand she moved past them both to the back of the store, perusing the candy bars. Once she was out of earshot, Stiles made violent gestures of rage in Scott’s general direction.

‘You sort of deserved that, bub.’ He grinned, moving behind the counter, shoving Stiles out of the way as he crouched down to open a carton of cigarettes. ‘Maybe you should stop drooling and actually go talk to her.’ He stood up, brandishing a packet of Lucky Strikes triumphantly. ‘Lay on some of that Stilinski charm.’

Stiles shoved him away before he started on the jars of candy. ‘Do I look like Rudolph Valentino? You don’t just go up to a girl like that and start yammering like it’s all jake!’

Scott shrugged. He tore open the packet of cigarettes, fishing in his pocket for a lighter.  He lit a cigarette and took a long drag on it.  

‘Will you give me those ridiculous things? How many times? You know it sets off your asthma.’’ Stiles snatched the packet out of his hand. ‘Dad will have your hide if he catches you pilfering again.’ He pushed them into the front of his hideous coveralls. ‘And the lighter, too, Scott. Dad got that in service, you know that.’

‘Sure I don’t mean to disturb this little mother’s meeting, but can a gentleman get any gas around here?’

Stiles bristled at the young man with the weasel’s grin standing in the open doorway. That damn bell. ‘Can a gentleman learn to say “good evening” before he interrupts a conversation?’

‘Hey, don’t speak to a customer like that,’ said Scott. ‘We need the custom, don’t we?’ He clapped his hands together. ‘You just wait in here, sir. I’ll fill the tank for you and I’ll give the car a once-over, just to thank you for your business this evening.’

‘Do you want to give him anything from the cash register to go with that?’ said Stiles acidly.

‘I never take from charity,’ said the man, stepping neatly aside as Scott pushed past him with a sheepish smile. He gestured to his own obviously expensive suit. ‘This probably costs more than your entire store, can you fathom it?’

‘I can’t fathom it at all,’ said Stiles. He fixed a smile upon his face. ‘Can I help you?’

The customer didn’t respond. He cast a critical eye over the store, grinning at the display of shoe polish Stiles had lovingly crafted. ‘How quaint!’ He placed his hands in his pockets, an undignified gesture which made Stiles stand taller; this was no Clark Gable.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ he repeated.

‘Can you, indeed.’ He clucked his tongue.  ‘This is quite the treat. It’s not often a fellow runs into a couple of movie stars.’

‘Excuse me?’ asked Stiles, placing his hands on the counter. He resisted the urge to preen- he knew when the rose had a thorn attached.

‘Well, Mickey out there,’ he jacked a thumb in Scott’s direction, ‘and little Minnie Mouse.’ He smirked. ‘And me without my autograph book.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry. You probably left it in the same place where you forgot your personality.’

‘Ah, that old backwater charm. Quite reminds a gentleman of rogues he once saw down in the Mexicali.’

Stiles sighed heavily. ‘I’m sure you think this is all very intimidating, but I can assure you it’s quite the opposite. So if you would be so kind to pay for your gas and leave. With immediate effect.’ He crossed his arms and raised a brow. These kinds of customers were annoying, but not uncommon. They practically wet themselves in excitement the minute they got the chance to show off everything they had to those who obviously had so little.

The man watched him for a moment, his face expressionless. Finally, he whistled low under his breath and removed a small clipping from his pocket. Slapping it down on the counter, he announced; ‘Isaac Lahey.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The picture, genius. His name is Isaac Lahey. He’s got a father out there looking for him and he hired me to do the looking. Word has he passed through these parts about two month ago. You’ve probably had, what, about six customers since then so I assume you’ll remember him.’

Stiles let the comment go; it probably wasn’t that far from the truth, and leaned closer to get a better look.

A tall, solemn-faced, fair-haired boy stared back. The camera had caught him in movement, a blur silhouetting his frame as if he had tried to flee the camera’s regard.

‘So, you know that face, yokel?'

'I haven't seen him,' answered Stiles with a cool glance upward.

The man smiled lazily, as if Stiles’ clear dislike of him was a joy to behold. ‘Sissy boy like that? You sure? I’da thought you hicks’d be watching someone like that the second they stepped into here.' He moved closer and Stiles cringed at the stale scent of cologne that wafted towards him. 'Think back, do you and your gal pals remembering gossiping over him in the powder room?'

‘Why would I help some nosy stranger? Are you a cop? Somehow I doubt it.’

The man reached inside the inner breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a card. He whacked it onto the counter.

Stiles stared down at it. On one side was a picture of the man, a grave expression on his handsome face. The other side was headed _Long Island Railway Company,_ guaranteeing a pass for Detective Jackson Whittemore, _a member of the Police Department of The City of New York_. His heart sank. He fought to regain his composure. ‘Well, okay... sorry, _sir_. But this isn’t New York, is it? Seems you’re a long way from home, Detective. And as I already said,’ he pushed the picture of Isaac Lahey across the desk, ‘I haven’t seen--’

‘Well, hello!’ Whittemore’s attention was lost and had landed on the approaching Lydia. ‘What’s a sweet ankle like you doing in a place like this?’

She rolled her eyes, a hand on her hip as she dropped some items onto the counter. ‘I’m auditioning for the _Ziefield Follies_ , isn’t it obvious?’

‘You may want to lower your claws, sweetness,’’ Whittemore said in a low voice. He smirked. ‘Might make all sorts of interesting new friends that way.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, is that so?’

The detective smiled slowly, his eyes travelling down her torso. ‘I’ve been on the road for a bit and haven’t had a drop to drink.’

‘Coke!’ Stiles yelled. ‘We have Coke?’

The cad barely spent Stiles a glance, eyes fixed to Lydia as he rang up her items. ‘Not what I had in mind.’

‘We have OJ? And root beer...I think! I don’t-- There was supposed to be a delivery. Scott was---A stock take! He was going to do a stocktake.’ He could feel his cheeks burning red as they both watched him in a mixture of amusement and disgust. The latter was all Whittemore’s. ‘Uh, will that--- will that be all, Lydia?’ He handed over her items, jumping a little as their fingers grazed each other.

‘I think that’s everything!’ she said brightly. ‘See you at school, Biles!’ She blew him a kiss before turning and giving Whittemore a flirty look from beneath her eyelashes. ‘Detective.’

‘You know she didn’t pay, right?’ Whittemore asked as she breezed out the store.

‘What?’ Stiles blinked. ‘Oh, sure. _Sure._ Of course I know! She has a tab. We go way back. Firm friends. _Confidantes_. Very, very close.’ He crossed his fingers together and held them up for him to see. ‘Like this.’ He gestured with his other hand. ‘I’m the taller finger, clearly.’

Whittemore blinked slowly, his hand still resting on the counter. Slowly, he leaned closer and placed his chin on his hand staring at Stiles as one would a stained page within a loaned paperback. ‘Hmm.’

‘Hmm? What’s hmm? Why are you hmming me?’

‘A girl like that, really? And _you_? Guess beggers really can’t be choosers.’ He stood up straight and collected the photograph from the desk. ‘I miss New York. There aren’t so many goddamn _crumbs_ in the city.’

Stiles was stung; a part of him always worried that he’d sink into the apathy of the little town, and the answering smirk from Whittemore told him he’d been read like a book. ‘I’m not from around here!’ he snapped. ‘I’m from _Bakersfield_. I’m not a _crumb_!’

Whittemore laughed harshly. ‘You’re being serious?’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Bakersfield! Oh, the things you must’ve seen, little boy.’ He bundled the photograph and his identification card into his pocket. ‘Why, I’ve seen Europe and China and Abyssinia, and the Lord knows I’ve tracked criminals in Buenos Aires and I have stared Dillinger in the eyes and seen my closest friend take a bullet, but maybe I’ll come back one day to hear your exciting stories about _Bakersfield_.’’

‘I’ll do more,’ said Stiles. ‘I’m not chained here. I’ve got plans!’

‘Dreamers in a small town never get far.’ Whittemore regarded him with a critical eye. ‘You ain’t going Hollywood with those looks, either.’

‘What’s wrong with my--’ Stiles caught himself; he knew better than to crawl down on his belly with the rest. ‘I don’t intend to waste my life round here.’ He jutted his jaw. ‘Now, it looks like my brother is done with your car, _sir,_ so if that will be all?’ He looked to the door and back to Whittemore, then back to the door with a raised brow.

Whittemore picked up a Snickers bar. ‘And this, Jelly Bean.’  He placed some coins on the counter.

‘Hey, there’s too much here, even with the gas--’ said Stiles.

‘Keep it,’ said Whittemore, turning and heading towards the door. ‘Use it to get your hair set how you like it.’  

Stiles flushed with anger, but held his tongue as the detective left, pausing in the doorway only to show the photograph to Scott and repeat the question about Isaac Lahey.

Stiles turned away, feeling vaguely sick. He watched as Whittemore strolled to his car, a white Ford Hotrod, as flashy and attention-seeking as Whittemore was. He glowered at the car as Whittemore started it up and pulled away. ‘I’m _not_ chained here,’ he whispered. ‘I _won’t_ be chained here.’

  



	2. Chapter 2

  
_‘I'm not hungry. Except for you. You got something I like.’_  - Scarface.

Stiles lay on his bed, listening to the sounds of his brother and father moving around in the kitchen, punctuated by the comforting noise of the crickets outside.

The night was too hot for him to bother with dinner, though Scott would never miss out on a meal and his father doggedly stuck to routine, so he had to endure the smells and the heat of the stove as they fixed their evening meal. He sighed, wishing they would just retire for the night so he could be alone with his thoughts, without the dreary, grinding evidence of everyday life around him.

But Scott was especially talkative tonight, jabbering on excitedly about his grand plans for the future, which Stiles had always imagined would involve the store counter, occasional baseball match and a homely Lamont girl. He was wrong.

‘--And Coach says that there might be a scout at the next game,’ came Scott’s voice through the wall from the kitchen. ‘But I don’t know, I mean, I hear that there are baseball scholarships going for Notre Dame and Washington State, so I could maybe get some real education in _and_ I could pursue what I really love, you know?’

‘It’s good to see you looking at your options,’ answered John.

‘Allison thinks I should try out.’ Scott’s voice sounded circumspect, as if he were trying not to be sullen. ‘ I overheard her father—her father says I don’t have the learnin’ for college.’

There was the clatter of a fork, and then John’s voice, moved to emotion for once: ‘Now you listen here, you don’t need other folk to tell you what to think and how to be. You’re a good kid, Scott. I’m proud of you and how hard you work, and I know that your mother would be, too.’

‘I just try to do right by her, you know?’  

‘And you do. You’re a good kid. You’re about one of the few good things left around here.’

Stiles looked up at that, listening. He waited for his father to say something, _anything,_ about him, but then there was Scott, affable and conciliatory:

‘Me and Stiles, right?’

No answer.

Scott went on: ‘And Allison also said--’

John laughed. ‘Lot of your sentences seem to start that way, son.’

‘--Well, she’s been talking about New York, you know, and how we could just drive on down there and try our luck. There’s loads of opportunities in the city, so Allison says.’

‘It’s risky, I guess, but if it makes you happy.’

‘Well, that way Stiles could come with us. He’d love a little excitement and I know he’s itchin’ to get away. He could look into writing at one of those fancy colleges and maybe get some internship on a paper--’

‘No.’

‘John?’

‘Stiles’ staying right here. He’s not goin’ anywhere, no matter what silly dreams he gets in his head, and you shouldn’t be encouraging him!’

Stiles closed his eyes, clenching his fists at his side so that he did not run from his room and scream in his father’s face. Typical. The first bit of emotion from his father when it came to him in who knew how many months, and it was contemptuous anger.

He blinked back angry tears and pushed away the hurt. He couldn’t give in to it. Daily, it grew and he knew the more he allowed it entry it would soon threaten to consume him. With a sigh, he leaned under his bed, removing the small wooden box that had once belonged to his mother. His father may have been the one who gave Stiles his interest in the criminal world, but it was his mother who had nurtured that into an actual passion for truth and justice. She used to delight in reading his childish scrawls about the latest Bakersfield had to offer in ways of scandal, gasping in all the right places and laughing in some of the wrong ones. Stiles had dreamt of the day when she would see his name in print, see a headline that had been coined from his hand.

‘And anyway, college is only a few years. I could come back here, raise a family, and hopefully Stiles and I could really take on the farm.’

‘That’s a nice dream, boy. I don’t reckon there’s any future in small farms around here -- what with labour bein’ so cheap for the big corps, and them buyin’ up all the land, but it’s a nice dream. Don’t look disappointed at me, now. With your talents, you could really make a go of the garage. I’d sign that over to you.’

‘You would?’

‘Just as soon as you return from college, yeah.’

Why did his father never engage with him on what he wanted to do with his life? It was just assumed from all that when Scott waved them off and headed into the sunset, that Stiles was just going happily throw on his coveralls and stay behind to look after the store? What did he have, really? Pipe dreams and a box of memories. God, he wished he could just blink himself away.

Stiles closed his eyes, imagining himself at a beautiful party with beautiful people.

_Jean Harlow was making her way towards him, her large eyes looking sultry. 'Got a light?' she asks with a quirked eyebrow._

_He simply smiles and meets her request with a hand and a match. As she takes a drag, she watches him from below heavy lids. ‘Say, ain’t you that crack reporter I’m always hearing about?’_

_He turns up his collar and regards her coolly, but knowingly, like Sam Spade. ‘What of it?’ he asks, and she says:_

_‘I got a story for you -- a real, one-of-a-kind story.’ She flicks some ash away, meets his gaze. ‘It could get a guy killed.’_

_‘Maybe you should call a cop--’_

_‘The cops!’ She’s scornful. Her lips twist into a wry smile. ‘The cops are all in on it. You know it’s true. And who’s gonna get the real story out, Mr…?’_

_He takes her hand. ‘Stillinski,’ he says. ‘You always knew it.’_

_‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Yeah, I knew.’_

From the other room, there was the sound of a chair being scraped along the floor. With that, his reverie ended. He opened his eyes and felt himself small and trapped and half-dead with ennui once again.

He sighed heavily and hastily began to gather the paper clippings from the surface, pushing the confusing thoughts to the back of his mind. Dreamers in a small town never get far. Maybe Whittemore was right; maybe it was time to stop being a dreamer.

 

* * *

 

 

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ asked John the next evening, following Stiles down the hallway as he pulled on a jacket. ‘I need you at the store, son.’

Stiles turned with a frown. ‘But I thought Scott and Greenberg were on tonight?’

Scott came up behind John, looking slightly contrite as he picked at his sandwich. ‘I can’t, John and me, we’re off to the game.’

‘But I’ve arranged with Heather to go see _Scarface_!’ protested Stiles. ‘I’ve already cancelled once!’

‘Land’s sake, Stiles, you can see that movie any day of the week. The semi-final is only tonight!’ John gave the ghost of a smile. ‘And I’m sure Heather will understand.’

‘Isn’t that really violent? Do you not think that’s a bit much to take a girl...’ Scott’s eyes widened on his slip. ‘I mean, no, no. You’re right! You did ask first.’ He smiled brightly at John. ‘We can catch it on the wireless.’

‘Great! Now that’s sorted.’ Stiles turned to go but his father gripped his shoulder and pulled him back.

‘Hold it, young man, I thought I told you to cut all those shoot-’em-ups out? You’ll rot your brain watching things like that. You read about it all the time.’

‘You never seemed to mind when I was reading _your_ case files. And those were real!’

His father’s jaw tightened and he pointed a finger. ‘If I had known it would lead to this ridiculous obsession of yours---’

‘What’s ridiculous about it?’ Stiles said, spreading his hands. ‘It’s real life, dad, someone has to tell America about it. Why not me?’

‘Because that’s no life! Other people’s misery and pain! Trust me, Stiles, I know better than most. I don’t want that for you!’

‘So this is better, huh?’ he said, gesturing to the room and all that entailed. ‘You want me to just live out my life here, _die_ of boredom?’

‘You watch your tone, young man.’ His father held up a warning finger. ‘You just calm yourself down right this minute.’

Scott was shooting him pleading looks but Stiles bore them no mind. It was like he could no longer what came out of his mouth.‘’Oh, like you?’ he spat. ‘Should I walk around like a ghost, too?’

‘Stiles!’ Scott took a step forward, touching Stiles’ shoulder gently. ‘You’re just upset, just leave it okay? I don’t care about the game.’

Stiles shook him off, pushing himself forward into his father’s space. ‘Should I just be like you, dad? Pretend I’m living underwater? Just stop even trying to live? We had a _life_ in Bakersfield! You wore a badge and that actually _meant_ something. But what are we now, dad? Scott and I just tip-toe around your shadow. You barely even look at me, anymore!’ A strange quelling feeling settled in Stiles’ stomach; restlessness and fear rolled into one, he could feel it reaching out to claim the rest of him. And with it followed hurt, crippling hurt. ‘Dad,’ he said softly. ‘You never look at me.’

‘I’m looking at you now, aren’t I? And let me tell you what I see, Stiles. I see a boy who is resentful and ungrateful and-- and _selfish_!’

Stiles felt like if his eyes were any wider they would push the eyebrows off his head. His fury was a dull roar at the back of his mind. Rage bubbled up and burst forth. ‘I never ask you for a damn--’

‘You watch your language!’

‘--Thing! But the minute Scott wants something, the minute Scott wants anything and you can’t move quick enough!’ Tears entered his eyes and Stiles stared at his father. ‘You never listen to me, do you? You never want to talk about things I care about!’

‘Robberies and murder, Stiles! That’s all you fill your head with!’ John was shouting now, Scott watching them both with nervous eyes. ‘What kind of future is in that? Will that put bread on the table? Chasing ambulances from one bullet to the next?’

‘It’s my future, dad! And you don’t care! Because it’s Scott that you wish was your real son! It’s Scott that you really care about.’ Stiles wiped at his eyes with his sleeve ‘It’s Scott you really love!’

‘This is just-- Stop being ridiculous, young man!’ John held up his finger. ‘All of this over some silly little picture?’

‘Why don’t you just admit it, dad!’ snapped Stiles. ‘You wish it was me that had died instead of Melissa.  I bet that’s why you’re so sad all the time, knowing that it was her and not me!’

John lowered his head, his gaze angry, fixed onto the ground. ‘Stop it,’ he warned softly. ‘Just stop.’

‘You think I don’t know how you really feel, huh?’ snarled Stiles, coming closer to his father, pushing at his chest. ‘You’re not smart enough to hide it, you know!’

Scott was between them, then, trying to push Stiles away. ‘Please, don’t!’ he begged, as father and son squared up to one another. Stiles pushed at him now, and Scott rounded on his brother. ‘Stiles, _please_!’

But the rage crashed through Stiles, turning his blood to acid. ‘Admit it, go on!’ he screamed. ‘You want me gone instead of her!’

‘Stop it!’ snapped Scott, pushing him away. ‘Don’t you dare talk about my mom like that!’

Stiles managed to evade his grasp and come close to his father again. He grabbed the lapels of his shirt. ‘Admit it!’ he hissed. ‘You wish it was me and not her! Then you would have your perfect little family, a nice new sta---’ Stiles’ head reeled as the back of John’s knuckles his cheekbone, causing him to stumble backward before clutching his face in shock.

John, in turn, seemed as shocked as himself. His face, so red a moment ago, was quickly draining of colour. ‘Stiles-- I’m sorry, I didn’t...’

But Stiles wasn’t listening, straightening his back and releasing his injured cheek, he glared at the two before turning his back and heading from the room.

 

* * *

 

Stiles sat in the shadows of the store’s porch, unable to bear Greenberg’s inane chatter. He tried in vain to tune him out as the lad cleaned the counter service, whistling a Berlin number desperately out of tune.

He couldn’t stand to be behind the counter tonight. Not when he was already feeling so hemmed in, his thoughts threatening to split his head at any moment. Greenberg was a nice enough sort for an idiot, and hadn’t even questioned Stiles’ request that he man the cash register tonight - probably because he could help himself to candy to make the night go faster. Not that Stiles cared; he could eat everything in the damn shop if he wanted, see if that got a reaction from his father.

He rubbed at his eyes miserably. His father. The first time Stiles had confronted him since Melissa’s death. He’d rehearsed his little speech so many times: he’d ask if his father was disappointed with him, they’d argue, he’d point out how unhappy he was, that he just needed his father’s _time_ once in a while, and doubtless they’d argue, but then there would be tears and they’d hug and it would be okay again.

Now he knew that would never happen. He couldn’t bear to talk to his father about everything, and it seemed the feeling was mutual. He could make it back home before John and Scott returned tonight, and feign sleep if John attempted to talk, but then what about the next morning? The next evening? Every damned day for the rest of the year? There was no escaping it, but it couldn’t be fixed, so what was the point?

He sighed as a car pulled into the nearest pump. At least it was a distraction. Dusting down his trousers, he readjusted his coveralls and made his way other, placing a bland small smile on his face as the window was wound down.

‘Good evening, Sir, would you like her fill-- oh, nuts!’

Whittemore grinned up at Stiles. ‘Don’t get over excited, I didn’t bring my smelling salts.’

‘What are you doinghere?’ Stiles snapped. ‘I mean, back so _soon_?’ He jumped backward as Whittemore swung open the car door and eased out, stretching his back and creating audible pops along the spine as he did so.

‘What can I say? I couldn’t go another minute away from that sweet disposition of yours.’ Whittemore leaned forward and tweaked Stiles’ nose with mock affection. ‘Too, there was the stinking room with some fleas for bedfellows I’ve had the pleasure of stayin’ in overnight, and the yokels who responded to my simple questions with simple looks on their faces, but I got to wondering, you see.’

Stiles curled his lip. ‘That must have been quite a unique experience for you.’

The smile faded from Whittemore’s face. ‘You watch your tongue, boy. I wouldn’t go shooting it off to people who might just shoot it off for you.’

Stiles clutched at his throat and opened his eyes wide. ‘Dil---Dil---Dillinger?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Horseradish.’

Whittemore’s jaw tightened and he shoved his hands in his pockets, looming over Stiles. ‘And what would you know about it, huh? Hearst got you undercover?’ He smirked. ‘God, Joes like you are a dozen a dime, you know that. You think you’re so above it all and act so high falutin’ because you got a touch of learnin’, looking down on all the nice folks around you until you end up old, sour faced, bitter and dull headed.’ He looked Stiles up and down. ‘I see you got a head start.’

Stiles sucked air in between his teeth. ‘Well,’ he said in a low voice. ‘As always this has been a complete delight, but if you could step aside so I could fill your car with enough gas to put an entire country between us that would be just dandy.’

Whittemore laughed humourlessly. ‘ I’m done talking with you. I was fixing to speak with your father. You know, the organ grinder rather than the monkey and all that.’ He nodded towards the store. ‘He around? Your better half- well, better one quarter- said he might be.’

‘My father is at the game with my brother,’ Stiles answered dully, gaze taken by another car pulling into the small station.  ‘And I don’t think he could help you anyway, he’s---’ Stiles hesitated, thinking of the shocked look on his father’s face and the sting before it. ‘He wouldn’t have noticed this Issac anyway.’

Jackson tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. ‘Looks like someone lamped one on you, slugger.’ He reached out a hand, following Stiles as he dodged then grabbing him by the chin and turning his head towards him to see better in the falling light. ‘You been running that mouth off somewhere you shouldn’t?’

Stiles wrenched the hand away with a snarl. ‘None of your beeswax,’ he snapped. The new customer was out of his car now, looking towards them both silently.

 **‘** You learn your manners from a pig, boy?’ tutted Jackson.

‘What?’ Stiles said, distractedly. What was the customer doing back there? He stood on tiptoe, staring over the Whittemore’s shoulder, where the other customer was enmeshed in shadow.

Whittemore shook his head. ‘Listen,’ he pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ve had a hell of a week, and this rathole is the closest thing I’ve had to a lead all month. If I come back tomorrow, do you think your pa will be around? Word is this was the last station Lahey stopped at so one of you must have served him.’ He jutted his chin. ‘What about the half pint in there trying to shove three bars of candy into his mouth?’

Stiles turned to glance behind him, and sighed. ‘That’s Greenberg. He doesn’t work the register much but, I guess, you could ask him.’ He shrugged, looking back over at the stranger next to his car. ‘Do you want her filled up or not? I have other customers, you know.’

‘Can I get some service other here?’ came the low voice of the other customer behind them. ‘I’m already behind schedule.’

Well, this was just another pearl of a day in Stiles’ life. ‘Hold your horses!’ answered Stiles, his stare still on Whittemore. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy talking to a moron?’

Jackson snorted. ‘Rapier wit there, hick.’

That was it. ‘You know what?’ Stiles shoved the barrel into Whittemore’s hand. ‘You’re _so_ wonderful. Do it yourself.’ Stiles twisted on his heel and allowed himself a second to enjoy Whittemore’s shocked expression before marching over to the newcomer.

The other customer stared coldly as Stiles approached. He returned the glare. ‘Yes?’ he snapped. ‘You need gas?’ At the man’s sneering nod, Stiles sighed.

The young man looked like he had stepped out of the silver screen. All strong jawed and broad shoulders. No doubt he was of the Jackson Whittemore train of thought that matinee idol looks meant that all lesser mortals owed you a living. Stiles raised his hand to his throat, scratching it unconsciously as the customer continued to quietly stare. ‘Do want to bring it closer?’

With a roll of his shoulders, the man turned around, sliding smoothly back into into the car, starting the engine up, bringing it closer to the gas pump. Stiles moved past him as he got out of the car again. ‘You want me to fill the tank?’

‘Obviously,’ he muttered through the window.

Stiles ignored that and placed the nozzle at the fuel cap and began. He cast the young man a sideways glance, looking away hastily when he realised the customer was staring at him, too. The customer had no right to bear a grudge, he reasoned; he was the one that climbed out of the car with the attitude in the first place.

‘We about done?’

Stiles nodded. ‘Just about.’

‘How much?’ said the young man. ‘To fill the tank?’

Stiles tapped at the counter on the gas pump. ‘Just about that.’

The young man gave him a sly look. ‘And if I--’

‘Excuse me, ladies.’

Stiles cried out angrily as Whittemore pushed past him. ‘Watch where you’re going!’

Whittemore winked at Stiles and headed inside the store, flinging open the door so that a beam of light briefly flashed over the other customer’s eyes. He sighed, replacing the nozzle. ‘Come on, I’ll ring you up inside. I have to keep an eye on that rude greaseball, anyhow.’

The man followed closely, silently, at Stiles’ heels as they headed in.

Stiles couldn’t repress a groan as he entered the store. Whittemore was in full flow. ‘‘--BANG! You shoulda heard it, Harp. And I looked Dillinger right in his button and held up my Colt...’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ muttered Stiles on seeing Greenberg’s watching Whittemore with large awestruck eyes. ‘Not more penny dreadful detective stories from the world’s worst cop.’ Stiles felt the man stiffen at his side. ‘Well, railroad detective, so not even a real cop,’ he amended.

Whittemore turned to them both with a curled lip. ‘Never mind. This isn’t a story for a child’s fragile ears.’

‘No,’ said Stiles. ‘It’s for haggard travellers.’

‘Oh, I apologise!’ cried Whittemore, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I forgot how mighty sensitive this here fella is.’ He smiled at the customer, then stepped back a little, regarding him with an suspicious eye. ‘What’s your business here, anyway?’

The young man gave him a puzzled look. ‘I’m a customer here.’

‘Right... right.’ Whittemore slapped his hand on the counter. ‘Serve the man, wontcha, boy?’

Greenberg jumped up. ‘Yessir of course.’

Stiles rolled his eyes. ‘It’s okay, Greenberg. You go and give the restrooms a once-over. I’ll finish up here.’

Whittemore leaned against the counter. ‘Yeah,’ he drawled. ‘Mr. Big Time here leaves all the plush jobs to the help.’ He winked at Stiles again.

‘Will you move?’ said Stiles. ‘In fact, if you’ve been served, how about you exit my store?’

‘In time, Mickey Rooney. In time. I’m just browsin’ all your fine goods for offer, ain’t I?’ He darted another glance at the other customer, who did his best to ignore Jackson’s stare as he paid for his gas.

‘It’s warm out tonight, isn’t it?’ said the young man as Stiles handed him his change. The words sounded stilted and uninterested. But marks for trying, Stiles guessed.

‘It is, but there’s supposed to be a storm coming in the next day or two. It’s the talk of the town’ said Stiles. He smirked as the customer picked out some candy. ‘Wise of you. You never know if you’re going to get stuck in some muddy field out here.’

‘I guess not.’

Whittemore was still staring at the stranger with an interested air. He frowned. ‘Do I know you?’

The stranger shook his head. ‘No.’ He considered. ‘Are you from Philadelphia?’

‘No. I’ve had dealings there...’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Say! That’s a sharp tailored suit. And one hell of  a swell car. You must be bored in a backwater like this.’ He nodded his head at Stiles. ‘And with bumpkins like these.’  He jerked a thumb towards Stiles. Lord, he was a creeper, too? There was no end to his attributes.

‘I’m only passing through,’ said the young man. ‘I’m en-route to New York, actually.’

Stiles roused himself. ‘New York?’

‘What’s the matter?’ said Whittemore. ‘You afraid that if you cross the state line, you disappear?’ He winked at the customer. ‘These goddamn crumbs,’ he said conspiratorially.

‘What’s it like in New York? Do you live in an apartment? What part do you live in? Have you ever seen Al Capone? I mean before he was arrested, obviously. Have you been to any speakeasies? Do you--’

‘--Regret stepping in here to speak with this idiot?’ finished Whittemore.

‘I could go. I could easily go. I already told you!’ Stiles jutted his chin. ‘Hey, you want some company? To New York, I mean.’ His heart was beating faster in his chest, the roof of his mouth dry but he refused to back down and give Jackson the satisfaction.

‘I don’t exactly do company, kid.’

‘Is this because I was rude to you earlier? That was just a bad moment. I promise I’m usually a delight to be around. Everyone says so.’

‘Except me.’ drawled Jackson.

‘Except him.’

‘I’m sure,’ said the young man. ‘But I don’t need a charming sidekick, thank you. I prefer the silence of the open road.’

‘I can be silent!’

‘I don’t believe it,’ sighed Whittemore.

‘Is anybody talking to you? _Would_ anybody willingly talk to you?’

‘Why, that sweet chippy in here yesterday sure seemed happy to. Maybe I should go find her? And _talk_?’

Stiles clenched his fingers, feeling the nails embed into the flesh of his palm. ‘Please, you wouldn’t be able to follow any of those big words. In fact--’

‘Wouldn’t you know it,’ interrupted the stranger, looking sadly into his wallet. ‘I’m a little short.’ He cast a winning smile at Stiles.

Whittemore quickened. ‘You have to pay up, son.’

‘Don’t you call me that, cinder dick.’

‘What did you just say?’ asked Whittemore, squaring up to the stranger. He backed up when the other man engulfed him in his shadow and stared down at him menacingly. Whittemore gave a little huff of a laugh, holding his hands up as he stepped back. ‘We just talkin’ here. Just talkin’.’

The man grunted before turning and fixing his eyes on Stiles. ‘Say, I’ve got business in LA next month. What say we open a tab and I stop in here again?’

Jackson raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, what you say, pally, you as stupid as you look?’

The man shot a glare towards him and Jackson took another step back. ‘Or I could wire you the money when I reach New York.’

‘ _Or_ , I could come with you and you could give it to me in person.’

‘I told you,’ said the young man. ‘I don’t need anybody’s company. I travel alone.’

‘Looks like you’re stuck, lone wolf.’ Whittemore cracked his knuckles and smiled at him. ‘Can’t pay like a crumb, be lumbered with a crumb.’

‘Shut up!’ snapped both Stiles and the customer in unison. They shared a quick grin: Stiles found that nothing brought people together quicker than a common enemy.

‘What do you say?’ he pressed. ‘Want to be lumbered with a crumb? Just for a little while?’

The customer sighed. ‘Fine. _Fine_. You can tag along. But the minute I tire of you -- and I get tired of everyone, I’ll have you know -- you leave. Right?’

‘Right!’ Stiles blinked. ‘What? Really? No fooling?’

The young man nodded slightly. ‘No fooling.’

Jackson flashed Stiles a sardonic smile. ‘What a coincidence. You with no money and the store clerk here needing a favour. It’s like something out of a Joan Crawford movie. I may weep.’

‘Scott and Greenberg are more than capable,’ muttered Stiles, more to himself than to his audience. ‘And sure I’ll pay my own way! I have savings!’  

Jackson frowned, looking back and forth between the two. ‘Come on, rube, you got any idea what it’s like out there at the moment? This ain’t no fairytale.’

‘Oh, my God. New York!’ Stiles continued ignoring him. ‘I’m actually going to get to see New York!’

‘What is all this bumpin’ gums?’ said Whittemore. ‘You’re not just going to throw your lot in with some stranger that you met five minutes ago. Be serious.’

‘Just what has it got to do with you?’ Stiles turned. ‘Are you having trouble finding the door? Shall I draw you a map?’

Whittemore picked up a Snickers and ripped the wrapper off with a smirk. ‘Face it, bub, you’re blowing enough smoke around to fell a bull. You ain’t going nowhere.’

Stiles glowered at him. ‘Are you quite done?’

Whittemore bit his lip, barely containing the smile which always ready to leap onto his face. ‘Yeah, we’re done. You take care now, bub. I’ll be by tomorrow to talk to _you_ and daddy.’ He  tossed some change onto the counter and moved by the two, throwing the man a wink as he did.

‘What a pill,’ whispered Stiles as Whittemore left, he flushed once again when he noticed the man silently watching him. ‘Listen, I’m serious. This is so swell of you! I’ve got to get to New York. Do you know what’s going on there? I was just reading the other week about this Walter Sage and--.’

The man looked vaguely amused. ‘I’ve seen worse things.’ He cast a glance at the store window, watching Whittemore start up his car. ‘Oh, the things I’ve seen,’ he murmured.

Stiles leaned forward. ‘Is Philadelphia exciting?’

‘Hmm?’ said the man, with a distracted air.

‘Nothing like New York, I suppose.’ Stiles grinned in excitement, pushing down the nerves sparking into life in his stomach. Sam Spade wouldn’t stop to worry about such things. If Stiles wanted to be in print, to be taken seriously, these were the risks he was going to have to start taking.

The man turned back to him. ‘No.’ He placed his hands on the counter and stared at Stiles’ own hands for a moment, lost in thought. He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, his expression pondering. Then he looked up, intently. ‘If you’re coming with me, you mind if we pick up some supplies? Nothing too expensive, of course.’ He grinned. ‘I wouldn’t want to _rob_ you.’

‘Uh... yeah. Sure! I suppose gas to New York is pretty expensive. Just bring it to the counter and I’ll ring it up as an IOU to my dad.’

Stiles sank into the chair at the counter. Everything felt surreal. He needed time to think things over, but his heart was hammering in his chest. _New York_. ‘Say, you ever get tired of New York, like I do of this place? I bet you don’t.’

The man shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, picking up a hammer, weighing it in his hands before he put it back and selected another one. He tested its weight, wielding it easily. ‘Yeah, that’ll do nicely.’

‘Will that be everything? Is there anything else I should bring?  It’s a heck of a drive. Should I bring stuff for camping? Do we need blankets?’

‘Just pack a valise, I guess.’

‘Oh, right. Okay.’ He blinked. ‘With what?’

‘With-- with _stuff_.’

Stiles bit his lip as he watched the intense look on the man’s face. He looked so serious, so grave as he wandered the store, casting an inscrutable look at Stiles every so often. He seemed the epitome of Stiles’ loneliness: unaffected by the world around him, lost in his own thoughts. ‘We have pretty much everything you need for the road,’ he said. ‘So let me know if there’s anything else you can think of - we might have it in the back.’

‘Well,’ said the man, turning to him with a grin. ‘You could give me all the money in your register.’

Stiles looked up at him again, startled. But then he saw the wide-set smile beneath those oddly coloured eyes, one so unexpected it startled him for a moment before he laughed. ‘Ah, you had me there!’ he said.

The man chuckled. ‘I guess I did,’ he said. He strolled towards the counter, holding the hammer in one hand. ‘Yeah, I’ve made my decision.’’

As he drew close, he picked up a magazine from the newspaper stand. ‘Oh, I’ll have that, too.’ He tossed it on the counter, but kept hold of the hammer.

‘Oh, _Black Mask_!’ exclaimed Stiles as he saw his glossy magazine staring up at him, he rose up from the chair to get a closer glance. ‘Have you read the latest Sam Spade?’

‘You mean the story in this magazine?’

‘Yeah!’

‘No,’ said the stranger slowly. ‘That’s why I’m buying it.’

‘Right! Of course.’ Stiles wet his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. ‘I’m sorry, I just blather on sometimes. I understand if you don’t want… if I’m annoying. I swear only my mother could ever--’ Stiles winced and broke off. ‘I mean, I understand if you’d rather--- that tab idea, maybe.’

‘Your mother?’

‘Sorry?’

‘What about her?’ He tapped the hammer lightly against his palm. ‘You were going to say something about her.’

‘Oh, just--- I was pretty hyperactive as a kid, uh, more so. And she just had a lot of time for me. She used to buy me those, actually.’ He signalled towards the magazine. ‘She used to sneak them to me because my dad thought I was too young and would have nightmares.’

‘Used to?’

‘She-- she passed when I was a kid.’ Stiles shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘Doesn’t mean nothing to the heart,’ he said, his voice sombre. He looked at the hammer one more time before placing it on the counter. ‘Derek.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘My name. It’s Derek. Derek Hale.’

‘Oh. _Oh!_ ’ He tapped at his badge on his chest. ‘Stiles Stilinski.’

Derek gave him a crooked grin. ‘So, you about ready to come with me?’

Stiles nodded eagerly. ‘Yes! I need to go pack! I have so many--- Scott and dad are at the game,’ he said, faltering. ‘Do you think it would be too much trouble to wait? I don’t know if my father would take too kindly to a note.’

Derek shook his head sadly. ‘As I said, I’m behind schedule. It would need to be now. Just send them a wire at the first post office we pass by.’

Stiles worried at his lip. He needed to stop letting his excitement get ahead of him.  And yet Derek made it all sound so simple. Could he really let this opportunity pass him by so readily? After all, he thought with a pang, his father had made it quite clear where he stood in his heart. If there hadn’t been that terrible impasse between them of late -- and now here was someone who could meet his eyes, unlike his father. Here was someone who didn’t ask why he had to carry on so, the way affable, mild Scott did.  And it wasn’t like his father would care much if the son he ignored wasn’t there anymore. ‘I suppose so.’

 **‘** Good. Go get your stuff.’

‘Oh! Right. Yeah, okay!’ Stiles bounced on the balls of his feet. ‘I’ll do that!’ He began for the door, walking backwards. ‘Oh, Greenberg! I best go explain.’

‘No need,’ answered Derek smoothly. ‘You run on ahead now and I’ll let him know of our plans. Meet me at my car?’

‘That would be great!’ Stiles allowed a wide grin to overtake his face. ‘I promise I will be as quick as I can. Thanks for this, pal. I mean, really. Thank you--’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘Yes! A new beginning, isn’t it!’

Derek shrugged his shoulders, a bemused expression on his face. ‘I know!’

‘I’ll just be--’

Derek placed his hands behind his back, his smile wide. ‘Remember: I’ll meet you at the car.’

‘Okay!’ Stiles grabbed the door handle and cast him one final glance, but Derek had already turned away.

* * *

 

As Stiles ran back to the family home, he felt a thrill of sheer excitement crash through him. With a few words, he’d completely rewritten his life story. He felt like a child, as if anything were possible and the only limits were that of his imagination.

‘I’m leaving!’ he shouted into the darkness. ‘I’m getting out of this place!’


	3. Chapter 3

 

  
_‘People didn't like you for telling the truth.’_ \- Cannery Row,  John Steinbeck.

‘How long until the next town?’

Derek shrugged. ‘A few miles, I reckon.’

‘Good,’ said Stiles. ‘I could use a drink of root beer or something.’

‘Oh, right. Here, we’ll stop off at the next place we see and get you something to eat.’ He scowled. ‘I can’t believe how selfish I’ve been.’

‘Derek, don’t worry. We’ve only been up for an hour. I just said I was a bit thirsty, is all.’

‘I’m the one driving,’ said Derek sternly. ‘I’m supposed to take your feelings into consideration, and it’s already noon and all.’ He shrugged. ‘I tend not to eat until late in the day. I guess I’ve always been that way -- it was the done thing in my family to regard such things as secondary to business, and putting on a show, you know.’

Stiles frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

‘‘Ma always was rushing to and fro, meetin’ yer guests -- you’re laughing,’ he said, a defensive edge to his voice.

‘I don’t mean anything by it,’ said Stiles, grinning. ‘I just love how you talk all fancy and then you’re slipping into that less _refined_ way of speaking every so often-- now you’re mad at me.’

‘I’m not.’ He scowled and looked away from Stiles. ‘I’m _not_.’

‘You are!’ he said. He punched Derek’s arm lightly. ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t make such comments if I knew a bit more about you.’

Derek frowned. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Tell me about your family.’

‘Nah.’

‘Uh, favourite movie?’

‘ _Pandora’s Box_.’

‘Oh. Right. Umm… favourite food?’

‘Who gives a futz what I like to eat?’

He snickered at Derek’s raised eyebrow. ‘So I can buy you something to eat when we stop off, sure.  Something so sugary it will make your teeth itch. Real road food.’

Derek smiled softly and waved a hand. ‘All these questions ‘bout nothing. Why don’t you tell me about you?’

‘Are you kidding? You are probably the most interesting person I’ve ever met.’

‘You don’t need to flatter me just to get a soda, kid.’

Stiles shook his head emphatically. ‘You saw the kind of people I’m used to back there. Greenberg’s nice enough, sure, but he’s never going to be front page news, is he?’

‘Not front page,’ said Derek. ‘Maybe page 2.’

Stiles smirked. ‘What’s the headline? ‘Local boy sells a half dozen gallons of gas in one day?’

‘Something like that. Anyway -- stop trying to change the subject -- and don’t you roll your eyes. Tell me your life story. Sixty seconds. Go.’

‘What’s to tell?’ said Stiles. ‘I was born, I had a mom, she died. I’ve always hated Bakersfield for being a dead-end place, but that became as exciting as Paris when my dad met Melissa -- that’s my step-brother Scott’s mom -- and they decided to move out to the sticks and try farming, because that was a real whammy of an idea just as the Depression took hold, but still, they were happy together and we made the family work--’

‘30 seconds.’

‘She died.’

‘I’m sorry. 28 seconds.’

‘None of us talk much, well, except Scott. Never the important stuff, you know? I wanted to go to college.’

‘What for? So you can spend years studying to wind up right back where you’re at? Where’s the lesson in that? Let life teach you all the lessons you need.’

‘Is life’s lesson boredom?’

‘10 seconds.’

‘You distracted me! I read, I dream of New York, I want adventure.’ He shrugged. ‘I just... I can’t let things stay the same. The same old story. What’s on the other page, you know?’ He turned to Derek, shielding his eyes against the harsh midday sun. ‘You know?’ he said again, on seeing Derek’s closed expression.

‘Don’t you want to find out?’’ said Derek with a wry smile.

* * *

 

‘Are you goin’  ta finish that before Roosevelt’s out of office, son?’ the bored teller asked, watching Stiles as he contemplated his note.

Stiles sighed heavily, giving the man a stink eye before deliberating over his message once more.

_All okay. Going to New York. Will send for my things._

The unwritten screamed from his page. He stared down at the paper, considered, sighed. Adding the nib to the page, he finished the note:

_All okay. Going to New York. Will send for my things. Don’t worry._

The teller took it with an overdramatic flourish, openly reading it in front of Stiles before adding it to the pile at his side with a small yawn. ‘I look forward to reading the rest of the gripping saga.’

Stiles tapped the counter and leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Glad to be of service. Anything to liven up your smalltown existence, pal.’ He clicked his tongue and made for the door. ‘You have a nice day now.’

‘Hey, don’t you sass me, mister! Get back here--!’

Exiting the post office, Stiles blinked at the harsh sun, looking across towards the store that Derek had popped into while he sent his telegram. Derek had asked him to meet at the car but he was sure feeling thirsty. He patted his pockets for change and was pleased to find a few nickels. Perhaps a drink before they began once more on the road, and maybe even a little candy. Plus, he had promised Derek some sort of treat as a thank you for his kindness.

With an affirmative nod, he began to make his way towards the store. His first proper day on the open road. It had been a strange sort of journey so far, but Stiles was having the time of his life. He loved the giddy sense of freedom he had: go wherever he wanted, talk to whomever he wanted, no set schedule, no storefront to lock up, no takings to count. He could point to any place on the map and say: _why don’t we try there?_

‘Stiles!’ He was startled as Derek appeared in front of him, eyes wide and arms full. ‘I thought I said to meet in the car --- come on, let’s go.’ With his limited free hand he attempted to guide Stiles by the elbow away from the front door.

‘But I was just going to get some root beer, and I promised you something, too?’ Stiles stared at him puzzled as he was led away with speed.

‘Did you send your telegram?’ Derek asked distractedly, shooting glances back at the store and ignoring Stiles’s protest.

‘Wait, what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, we just -- look, why you goin’ in that direction, Stiles? There’s nothing of interest in that store. Let’s find a bigger town.’

Stiles smiled. ‘No, no. I promised you I’d buy you something, and I will. Just give me five minutes--’

‘For fuck’s sake, Stiles!’ He snarled. ‘Come on!’

At the anger in his voice, Stiles felt like he had been slapped. He came to a sudden stop, mouth hung open in shock.

For a  moment, Derek carried on walking in haste, seemingly not noticing Stiles wasn’t following. He turned around, assuming a stricken expression. ‘Stiles, come on. I didn’t mean it.’

‘Yeah, okay, yeah. You know, If I’d wanted to be spoken to like that,’ said Stiles, bristling, ‘I’d have just stayed at home.’

‘I know, but--’

‘I won’t stand for it. Who do you think you are?’ he snapped.

‘Stiles, come on, I’m sorry. I mean it--’ He shook his head and looked away, his eyes troubled. ‘Will you please come with me and I will explain in the car?’ He held out his hand placatingly. ‘Please?’

Stiles glowered at him. ‘All right,’ he said finally, relenting. ‘But only because I can’t stand your embarrassing pleading.’’ He followed Derek over to the waiting car, having to hurry to catch up with his friend’s hurried walk.

The door slammed shut, and once Derek has emptied the purchases into the back, he climbed in next to Stiles. He glanced once more at the store, before reversing at speed away from the fronts. Stiles noticed a fresh sheen of perspiration on Derek’s forehead.

Looking away, Stiles hung his head and stared at his blunt fingernails, smoothing along his cuticles as he tried to fight off the urge to sulk.

They sat in silence for a good ten minutes before Stiles finally worked up the urge to break the dawning atmosphere. ‘‘So,’ said Stiles dully. ‘Why did we need to leave insuch a hurry?’

‘It’s a little- it’s a little delicate,’ said Derek softly. ‘And I would hate that we have something come between us. To have you think less of me.’

Stiles finally turned his head and looked at Derek as he drove. His mouth was set in a firm line and his stare remained fixed upon the road, yet Stiles could feel the tension roiling. ‘You were in there for all of five minutes, Derek, I can’t imagine it’s _that_ bad,’ insisted Stiles, ‘and I’m sure I won’t. Not after all your kindness, anyway.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Derek somberly. ‘I’ve been wrong before.’ He cast Stiles a regretful look. ‘I sincerely apologise for snapping at you, Stiles, and for the vulgar term I used. It was disrespectful.’

‘Derek, it’s okay. I’ve heard worse.’

Derek gave him a dark look at that and then turned away again. ‘The man in the store-- well, he--- he made insinuations against my-- uh-- character.’

Stiles blinked at that, quickly looking over Derek’s presentable and neat attire. Why, he was every parent’s dream college student. ‘Are you serious? But you don’t look like some hobo! You don’t look like an Okie! Why would they think that?’ he asked. He could feel himself getting angry, and he wasn’t even sure why he felt so offended on Derek’s behalf. ‘You mean it? They gave you a hard time on how you were dressed or something?’

‘Yes, I am afraid so.’ He licked at his lips. ‘He made some-- some comments about--’ Derek laughed bitterly, ‘-- he implied that I was a dandy.’

Stiles’s heart slipped into a bucket of ice and remained there numb. The most he could attempt was a squeak of surprise.. ‘A-- a dandy? _You_?’ He shook his head. ‘But you are so-- so-- _tall_!’

‘Yeah, well. I had to get out of there before I did something I regretted.’ He laughed humourlessly, flashing his teeth. ‘That’s why I was in such a rush to leave and why I was so out of character with you.’ He glanced over at Stiles. ‘So… you understand? We square?’  

‘--I-- of course!’ Stiles finally managed in a dusty voice. ‘It’s perfectly understandable.’ Stiles beamed widely and rather stupidly back at Derek before clasping his hands between his knees and staring straight ahead to the road before them.

What should he do? Call baloney on the very idea? Wax lyrical with Bible quotations or crude joshes? Or, sympathise with Derek? After all, it was something Stiles had been hearing before he was even in long pants. He’d had to learn quickly to get a sharp tongue in his head when his fists hadn’t proved intimidation enough. But would that very admittance shine an ugly spotlight upon himself? Put a thought in Derek’s head that had not been there before and make him think twice about putting himself in such small proximity with a possible deviant? Then again, was Stiles the one in close proximity to a real live honest to God homosexual? No. He couldn’t be. Derek was nothing like the descriptions he had read about in his magazines or heard about in the playground. Derek didn’t seem that sort of character at all.

But then again, what if he was? How to feel about that?

Derek was speaking, and Stiles snapped out of his thoughts. ‘Huh, I’m sorry, what?’

‘I was saying, it was just so absurd, you know.’ He laughed. ‘The very idea of it all, Stiles! I felt like I should say something, and a man should always stand up for his principles, shouldn’t he? And that’s what I did. Why, you’d do the same, wouldn’t you?’ he said, casting a pleading look at his companion.

‘I… I guess so...’

‘Well, there we have it!’ said Derek, clapping one hand onto Stiles’s shoulder, before returning it to the steering wheel. ‘That’s settled, then.’

‘Yeah,’ said Stiles. His heart lurched in his chest. He turned and gazed out at the open road feeling strangely despondent.

Derek began to hum a tune, but each time Stiles gazed at him in the wing mirror, he saw Derek’s eyes eventually slide over to watch him.

* * *

 

Night was falling before they stopped off in some roadside haunt on a backroad for a bite to eat, then hit the road again. They were near enough at the Arizona border when Derek pulled in from the road. Stiles regarded the clearing ahead of them dreamily. ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I guess just sitting in a car really does take it out of you.’

‘Yeah, we should hit the hay soon, maybe take in Phoenix tomorrow, then onto New Mexico.’

Stiles stretched. ‘Just give me a nice cold shower and I’m there.’ He smiled. ‘So, shall we find a motel?’

‘A motel.’ Derek snorted, opening his door. ‘Stiles, you realise how much money we’d be throwing away, staying in motels all the way to New York? What’s the point?’

‘The point is a shower.’

‘Sure you want to stay clean, princess.’

‘Listen here--’

‘But you know, I thought you were all up for seein’ _authentic America_.’

Stiles scowled. ‘Bit hard to see if I’m caked in dust,’ he called out the window as Derek began to rummage in the trunk.

‘Ah, quit whining. I got some blankets and the like and looks like the weather is going to hold.’ Derek glanced through the window. ‘C’mon, adventure! What you say?’

Stiles swallowed. ‘Um. Do I have to?’

‘No, you don’t _have_ to.’

‘Because a shower--’

Derek raised an eyebrow, the threat of a smirk on his face.

Stiles glowered. ‘Fine. _Fine_. One night. Just one!’

<center>*</center>

‘This is a lot of hard work,’ said Stiles. ‘Stumbling around in the dark trying to find sticks just sounds like a lot of needless trouble. I mean, we’ve progressed beyond this, haven’t we? We can add sound to pictures but you’re going to make me rub sticks together to keep warm? Yeah, fun. Authentic!’ he grumbled, dropping a pile of twigs at Derek’s feet.

‘Mmm.’

‘And I suppose I’ll just use the rain for a shower,’ he said morosely.

‘Stiles, I just really need to concentrate on getting this fire going, you know?’

‘Right. Okay.’ He sat down heavily. ‘But you...’ He closed his mouth when he saw Derek’s tolerant look. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, s’fine.’ Derek sat back, watching with satisfaction as the fire began to burn in earnest, the firelight lending a glow which softened the lines of his face.

‘So…’ began Stiles. ‘I sent that telegram to my dad.’

‘Good for you.’

‘I told him I’m fine you know.’ He waved his hand. ‘Just kept it short and sweet.’ He gave a small jut of his chin. ‘Played it clean.’

‘Atta boy.’  

Stiles glanced up at him quickly, checking for a mocking expression. But Derek wasn’t looking at him; he was still staring into the flames. ‘You-- you ever write your folks? Tell them about your adventures?’

Derek laughed shortly. ‘No.’

‘Oh.’ Stiles picked a little at a thread coming loose on his jeans. ‘Do you see your parents often?’

Derek shrugged. ‘No. We never was--- we were never particularly close.’

‘Doesn’t it get lonely, though?’ Stiles rested his chin on his palm. ‘I couldn’t imagine being by myself all the time.’

‘Really?’ Derek raised his eyebrow. ‘You were surrounded back in Lamont. Weren’t you lonely?’ He didn’t wait for a response. ‘It don’t matter how many people you got around ya, if you got the wrong people it don’t mean nothing. And why weren’t they paying you attention, anyway? What’s the deal with your pa -- you’re lookin’ at me all funny now, but I can read between the lines. I bet he doesn’t even--’

‘That’s enough,’ said Stiles, a little more sharply than he intended.

‘All right,’ Derek relented. Then, more softly, ‘all right.’

Stiles gnawed at his lip, unsure of how to respond. On the one hand, of course it was kind of flattering that Derek apparently thought so highly of him in such a short space of time but on the other, no matter the miles growing between them, they were _still_ his family and loyalty ran deep.

‘I’m--- I’m sure glad that it’s getting a bit cooler,’ said Stiles just for something to be saying. ‘I couldn’t stand how hot it was today.’

‘You’ll be glad of the fire when the temperature drops some more.’ Derek’s mood seemed immediately brighter; Stiles wondered if he had imagined the whole thing in the first place. Derek opened up a bottle of root beer, and handed it to Stiles, before opening one for himself. He took a swig. ‘Could use some bourbon right now, but this’ll do.’

Stiles watched as he threw back his head, swallowing more of the drink. Stiles unconsciously raised his fingers to his own throat, running them slowly over it.

Derek lowered the bottle and gave him a bemused glance. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry, what?’

He shrugged. ‘Never mind.’

‘I -- so you were pretty good at building that campfire, huh? Where’d you learn that?’

‘Me and my sister used to camp all the time when we was kids--- were kids.’ Derek smiled apologetically. ‘Makes me miss home. A little.’

‘Did you grow up in Philadelphia?’

Derek didn’t answer, instead choosing to stare into the flickering flames. The light danced across his face and his lips twisted softly. For a moment there was a density in the air that bore down upon them thickly. The night’s cold was biting.

‘Derek,’ prompted Stiles softly.

Derek blinked, seemingly surprised. ‘No, no. Massachusetts.’ He shrugged. ‘Lowell, to be exact.’

‘Oh!’ Stiles searched his mind for anything frantically. ‘They have--- uh-- textiles there, right.’

Derek laughed, choking a little on his drink. ‘Uh, yeah. Amongst other things. We moved to New York when I was about eight.’

‘That’ll explain why your accent’s not so easy to place.’

Derek laughed again softly. ‘I have an accent?’

‘Everyone has an accent, but at least it doesn’t sound country.’

‘It is what it is.’ Derek crossed his legs and tilted his head with a wink at Stiles. ‘What about you? Are you missing those gas pumps yet?’

Stiles shook his head slowly at the rapid change of subject. ‘Oh-- I-- I always thought I would, no matter how badly I wanted to leave but-- no. No, today has been pretty neat. I mean it helps that I’m with you and--’ Stiles paused, realising in his comfort he had let down his guard. ‘I mean, I like--- I like being with you is all.’

‘For my stellar company?’

Stiles laughed. ‘I guess it can’t be that.’ He grew serious. ‘It’s just good to talk to someone who’s a bit different, you know. Or at least, someone who knows I’m there -- acknowledges I’m there,’ he said, his voice lowering as he played with a clump of grass at his feet. ‘Back home-- well, they either ignore me or tolerate me. You--’ Stiles glanced back towards Derek, hoping he wasn’t being too forward, or worse that he was wrong and Derek saw him as a gas contribution and nothing more. ‘You don’t talk to me like that,’ he finished quietly.

Derek watched him for a moment, the low light casting shadows across his eyes. ‘That’s because they are small time, Stiles.’

‘Small time?’

‘Small little people with nothing to give to the world. So when they meet someone like you-- it scares them. Makes them defensive. Makes them mean.’ Derek edged closer and gave Stiles a conspiratorial smile. ‘You and me? We’re big time.’

Stiles shook his head slowly, years of doubt still firmly set in his bones. ‘No, you’re mistaken. I just dream big, is all.’

Derek grabbed his wrist, all traces of a smile gone. ‘That’s wrong and you know it. You're different, that's why. You know, you're like me. You want different things. You got somethin' better than bein' a shop keep. You and me travellin' together, we could cut a path clean across the Mother Road and everybody'd know about it.’ He quickened. ‘You listen to me, Stiles. You just listen to me.’

A grin spread across his face and Stiles stared back at Derek in wonder. ‘You really think so?’

‘Think so? Why I know so, don’t I?’ He clapped Stiles hard on the shoulder and offered a wink. Looking away, Stiles drank down the root beer, savouring the not quite cool liquid as it touched the back of his throat. Opening his eyes he found Derek watching the neck of the bottle where Stiles’s lips pressed against the glass.

Another silence fell between them then, filled with something Stiles couldn’t define, but it excited him. The way Derek watched him made him feel like he was something to be observed, contemplated. Wanted.

He blinked suddenly and tore his gaze away. It had been a long day. That’s all. A long day.

‘But what about New York?’

‘New York can wait. You’re going to need money to set yourself up, won’t you? Seems mighty foolish to turn up with empty pockets.’ He tapped at his bottle, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. ‘I could loan you some money.’

‘What? Oh, no!’ Stiles turned to Derek directly. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that! It wouldn’t be fair. You’ve already been so kind as to let me-’

‘Nonsense. You could be like an investment.’ He gave a firm nod. ‘And when your papers are flying off the stands, you’d better remember me and get me a goddamn _car_ or somethin’.’

‘I’m pretty sure that newspaper folk don’t exactly rake it in but-- no, no.’ Stiles held up a hand, head shaking frantically. ‘Honestly, it’s so swell of you, but I couldn’t!’

‘It’s happening. Stiles. I’ve got the money. It’s no hardship. We’ll stop at the nearest bank tomorrow and get the money then.’ He reached out a hand and gripped Stiles’s shoulder, stare entwined with his. ‘We’ll make a withdrawal.’

Stiles was mortified to feel water threatening to fill his eyes and blinked the tears back quickly. God, what was the matter with him. He was supposed to be heading to the grimy underbelly of crime and here he was tearing up like a Jeanette MacDonald record. Was he really _that_ starved for company?

‘I don’t know what--- thank you, Derek.’ He shook his head, feeling dazed. ‘Really.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ Derek stared off into the darkness for some time. ‘That’s what good people are supposed to do,’ he murmured.

 

* * *

 

Jackson scraped a finger across the kitchen table and didn’t bother to hide his sniff of distaste. Was there a single patch of this fleabitten backward town that didn’t come covered in dust?

‘Coffee?’ the girl asked, a small tired smile on her pretty pink lips. ‘Just brewed.’

Jackson glanced up, wondering what the girl’s relation to Stilinski was. He nodded and sat back and observed her as she moved, opening and closing cupboards with a small frown as she searched for mugs. Every now and then she’d look over at the brother who stood with his arms crossed and his stare engaged with the peeling wallpaper opposite. Aye, therein lay the rub; she liked the brother. And what better way to a man’s heart than when it was crumpled at his feet? That way, you could put it back together just the way you liked it. ‘Scott,’ her soft voice queried, ‘do you---’

‘How many times, Allison.’ He finally stirred and tiredly rubbed at his eyes. ‘No.’

‘Girl’s just trying to be a doll, little guy,’ said Jackson, flicking open his lighter as he popped a Lucky between his lips. ‘No need to be ugly about it.’ She glanced at him, her face open in surprise and a tiny bit of resentment that Jackson wasn’t entirely sure he deserved.

Scott frowned at him before closing his eyes and agreeing with a curt nod. ‘No, you’re right. He’s right.’ He crossed to her, smiling and rubbing at her elbow. ‘Thanks for being here. I really appreciate it.’

From the smile she radiated upon him, you would think the smudge had just coronated her the Queen of Europe. God, thought Jackson with a roll of his eyes,  this place was crawling with boring hicks and their boring predictable lives.. He glanced down at the sepia photograph that lay upon the table. Well, one less now.

‘Here it is,’ announced John Stilinski, entering. He walked into the room like a man wading through swamp water and in his hands he clutched at a white piece of paper like it was a rope on the tow dragging him out.  ‘We got this yesterday.’ John laughed bitterly as he seated himself at the table. ‘I don’t even know if he was the one who sent it.’

Jackson removed the unlit cigarette from his mouth as he took the telegram from him, noting that John’s release was a reluctant one. Why not? It was all he had left.

_ALL OKAY STOP GOING TO NEW YORK STOP WILL SEND FOR MY THINGS STOP DON’T WORRY STOP_

‘Well, I’ll be,’ murmured Jackson. Impressed a little despite himself.

‘It’s been his dream since he was knee-high. Always playing dress up as gunsmokes,or wearing my old badge, making a nuisance of himself and running around our legs bellowing at top of his voice.’ A fond smile lay on Stilinski’s lips. ‘Always pretending to pop people with that pathetic plastic gun he and his moth--’ The word died on his tongue. ‘You gonna get my kid back, Whittemore?’

Jackson indicated the paper and held it up. ‘This could be a false turn. Something to throw us off the scent.’

‘I didn’t ask for a critique, detective, I asked if you were going to bring my boy home to me.’ As Stilinski’s face reddened, Scott approached slowly and placed a placating hand on the man’s shoulder.

Jackson sighed heavily, placing the telegram down over the smiling boy in the photograph. ‘I’m not in the business of promises, Mr. Stilinski. In my line of work there isn’t a casting couch.’

‘Then what good are you?’ Stilinski shook his head and Jackson was embarrassed to see tears forming in his steel eyes. He was even more perturbed to find that sympathy was apparently a feeling that he was capable of. ‘My boy’s out there and--- the last time we talked, I--’ His voice cracked and he turned away, knuckles to his teeth as he stared out of the window. Scott patted unsurely, looking at Allison with wide worried eyes as Stilinski struggled to compose himself.

‘Mr. Stilinski,’ attempted Jackson slowly, ‘you must understand from everything that I’ve explained to you that--’

‘I don’t give a fucking damn!’ A fist smashed down on the table and the telegram flew up and away in fright, revealing the grin of the boy once more.

‘Dad! Allison’s present, you can’t!’ Scott was cut off by the screech of the chair being scraped violently back; John was on his feet, storming from the room. ‘Dad, you need to take it easy. Your heart!’

Jackson closed his eyes as the sound of crashing drawers came from the other room. _His heart is out there on the highway, boy, don’t you know that?_

‘This! _This_ is my boy!’ Stilinski marched quickly into the room, a wooden drawer in his hands. Reaching the table, he upturned the lot over the surface and on top of Jackson’s hands. ‘This is my boy. The kid that can talk your ear off about whoever the latest G-Man of the week is without pausing for breath, the kid that would wear out our new records barely out of the sleeve, the kid that would bring home every waif in the school-yard just to make sure they got a good meal for one damn night even if it meant he had to go without, the kid who would rather take a thousand hits and not once think of raising a fist back-- not because he was a coward, no, but because he his tongue was a thousand times sharper, Whittemore, because he’s got himself some _real_ brains. This kid of mine is his mother through and through and when I tell you I know that he wouldn’t-- That’s my son.’

Jackson glanced down at the clippings that covered the table. A bunch of narrow-eyed Federal Agents and sorry looking mobsters that he recognised but couldn’t place, ticket stubs, front page articles and various versions of the text _Story by Stiles Stilinski_ written over and over again in neat methodical writing.

‘It’s the last thing his mother ever gave him,’ whispered John. ‘A whole world to love an escape to. A world where he could protect people, keep the ones he loved safe. A world where he could be more than--- more than this!’ He straightened up and glared down at Jackson with quickly drying eyes that would have withered a lesser man. ‘I don’t give a damn about anything but getting that boy back here with his family, Whittemore. I know my son. I know him better than he even knows himself and there is no way that he--- I know him, Whittemore. ‘Now, are you going to go get him or are you going to get the hell out of my house?’

Maybe not so much a hick after all.

Jackson smiled, moving aside the clippings and retrieving the picture. He placed it in his inside pocket and leant back in his chair. ‘Okay, Mr. Stilinski. Tell me everything you know about your son.’


	4. Chapter 4

_The mind cannot support moral chaos for long. Men are under as strong a compulsion to invent an ethical setting for their behaviour as spiders are to weave themselves webs. -_ -John Dos Passos

 

‘I’ve told you several times to stop.’

‘Hmm?’ Stiles turned, surprised from his thoughts. ‘Oh… right. I was humming again.’

‘Yeah.’

Stiles shrugged.  ‘It drives my brother -- that’s Scott -- nutso. I swear he came close to jamming my hand in the till a few times.’

Derek grunted. ‘Why don’t you just sing instead of humming? Humming is _vexing_. You’re right vexing me.’  

‘Ah, I can’t sing,’ said Stiles. ‘Now, Scott, he can carry a tune. He sounds like he should be on the radio or something, he’s that good--’

‘Dammit, I don’t want to hear about Scott!’

Stiles started and turned to Derek in shock. ‘I-- _excuse_ me?’ He looked over at Derek and noted the tenseness of his jaw and the whitening of his knuckles around the steering wheel.

‘I didn’t ask about him! I was talking about _you._ What’s with the smoke and mirrors, boy? It’s like any chance you get you want to talk about them. Is this my punishment for takin’ you on? Do you not wanna be here or summat?’ He turned to Stiles with narrowed eyes. ‘Well?’

‘Of-- of course I want to be here, Derek, but I can-- I have a right to talk about my family!’ Stiles said, eyes narrowing. ‘You want to gag me or something?’

Derek’s expression softened and he placed a palm over his eyes. You’re right. I apologise. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. The long road I guess. I’m more tired than I realised but-- that’s no excuse. I’m sorry.’ Derek removed his hand and leaned over to grip Stiles’s upon his thigh. ‘Truly, I am.’

Nodding stiffly, Stiles ignored the war in his chest; annoyance at Derek’s abrupt rude outburst and excitement at the warm heat enveloping his knuckles. ‘That’s-- yes, okay. That’s fine. You’re tired. I guess we both are.’

Derek patted his hand. ‘Yeah, that’s it. Still pals, right?’

Stiles stared down at where his wrist was swallowed up by Derek’s hand. Derek’s knuckles were bruised, he noticed.

‘I-- sure, sure.’ He smiled at Derek’s puppy dog expression. ‘Maybe I should take over driving for a while? I could give you a chance to rest up and enjoy the view for once.’

‘Maybe tomorrow, yeah.’ Derek gave a final pat to Stiles’ hand and then jutted a thumb towards the bank. ‘I’ll be about ten minutes at the tops and then we can get back out there on the open road.’

‘This sure must be frustrating for you. This is, what, the fourth bank we’ve had to stop at?’

Derek shrugged. ‘I guess they ain’t used to handling out of towners as well as the locals. This should cover us for a good while at least.’ He looked over at the building. ‘It better,’ he added in a low tone. He jutted his head at Stiles, turning away and pulling his jacket tight around him.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Stiles announced to the car as Derek disappeared into the bank, ‘tonight I have the pleasure of introducing you to _the_ greatest jazz drummer of our age.’ He glanced at himself in the mirror, tilted his chin up proudly. ‘He’s the talk of California and -- for one night only! -- he’s lighting up Chicago.’

He raised his hand. ‘No, no, please. It’s _my_ pleasure. Save the applause for after.’ He lined up his hands on the dash. ‘Okay, this is a new one I’m previewing exclusively tonight. I call it: _Shut up, Scott. I So Can Play the Drums_.’

He beat out a gentle rhythm on the dash, beating a little louder when from somewhere there was annoying shriek from a woman.

‘You’ll note,’ he told his imaginary audience, ‘that I keep the beat steady. You’re lulled into a false sense of security--’

A couple of children ran past the car, screeching with laughter. He smiled.

‘--And then another beat creeps right on in...’

He began to drum harder, slapping his hand against the driver’s seat, the dash, the mirror. ‘Then, chaos! But controlled chaos, mind you.’

Across the street, there came the dull throb of a shop alarm going off. He began to play harder, trying to drown out the annoying sound.

‘This is where my tempo -- you hear that beat? Always in control, ladies and gentlemen.’

The alarm across the street had stopped ringing. He didn’t register it; he was playing more frantically now, humming as he did so. ‘And then--’ he began. To his utter horror, a panel of Derek’s meticulously-polished walnut dash fell right into his lap. He paled. ‘Oh, God. Are… are you important?’ he asked the panel. He picked it up and pushed it back into place. It held.

‘Excuse me, ladies -- that was a rather rude interruption from our maitre d--’

The panel fell into his lap again.

He wedged it into place, then pulled his knees up and crushed them against the panel as it began to pop back out again. ‘Right,’ he murmured. ‘Sitting like this all the way to New York is gonna be _swell_.’

Frowning, he glanced around, wondering if there was a convenience store where he could get some glue or in the worst case scenario, a hell of a lot of gum, when he spotted a brown leather wallet in front of Derek’s seat. Ah. Derek was going to be one annoyed hombre if he had been waiting in a queue only to have empty pockets.

Eyeing the squealer of a panel, he slowly eased his knees down. He was going to have to high-tail it in, throw the wallet at Derek’s face and then hop foot it back before Derek noticed. See? This is what happened when you bought pretty over _quality._ Wasn’t that he was always trying to tell Lydia? In a way, Derek only had himself to blame. He tutted to himself. Derek being cheap, causing him problems.

Grabbing the wallet, fingers tight against the faded leather, Stiles made his way out of the car and marched over to the bank , whistling a Lang number under his breath.

He grimaced with displeasure when he exited the car. The sun-cracked sidewalk was dusty from that day’s heat, and he winced when a cloud of dust was thrown up in his face by a passing vehicle. Across the street, a clock chimed the hour.

The bell clattered as he opened the door of the bank, seeking out Derek as he entered. He came to a sudden stop as the tip of his toe nudged into something soft but unyielding.

‘Wha---’ A man lay upon his stomach on the floor, his hands over the back of his head and body shivering all over. He wasn’t the only one. Three others lay in the same position.

Except one.

‘Derek?’ said Stiles blandly, ‘What’s---’

Derek shot him a quick glance over his shoulder, his mouth set in a grim line. ‘Go get back in the car.’

‘But--’

‘Now!’ He turned back to the teller with a humourless grin, and shook a gun at him. _A gun._ ‘You, keep filling the bag. No one told you to stop.’

Stiles felt frozen to the spot. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible. And yet no matter what his brain screamed out his eyes kept seeing the same image. Two men ducked low near the counter, hands over their heads. A teller shakily filling the satchel.

And Derek. Derek holding a gun.

‘I said get back in the car! Mind me now!’ He looked back, with a shake of his head. ’Please.’ His face was expressionless, save for a tiny tic in his jaw. ‘Go.’ He turned back to the teller who continued to fill the bag with money with nervous white hands.

Still not moving. Still not _believing_ , Stiles felt movement from behind him and was shoved roughly to the side. Stumbling, he turned to see another man charging towards Derek with a gun raised high.

‘Derek! Watch out!’ The warning was loose before Stiles even had time to consider it. His mouth was always faster off the bat than his brain. At his shout, Derek turned and was prepared for the attack. He grabbed at the man’s collar and pulled him towards him, butting him in the face with the gun’s handle, the resulting crack sounding out loud and vicious. He kneed upward and threw the man forward into the teller’s desk with brute force and the blow sent the man to his knees.

Derek grabbed the bag tightly to his chest and backed away, gun raised high. ‘No one try nothing. You hear me. Y’all stay put now.’ He ran towards Stiles. ‘Come on, we’ve got to go!’ Derek grabbed at Stiles’ wrist and hurried them to the door.

‘Wait, Derek, what the hell--’ He winced as his elbow jammed into the door roughly, Derek pulling forcefully and pushing him in front of him, causing Stiles to stumble towards their vehicle.

 ‘Here,’ said Derek, leaning into the open window and snatching up Stiles’ bag.

‘What are you doing?’ cried Stiles as he threw it towards him. Was Derek leaving him? He looked back towards the store in terror but Derek was soon rushing past him and ushering him forward to a battered-looking Model T.

‘Quickly, get in!’

‘What?’ Stiles gaped as Derek climbed in, and began fiddling under the steering wheel, face twisted in concentration. ‘But this isn’t our car?’

‘Stop living in the past, Stiles,’ Derek drawled as the engine roared to life. ‘And get in the damn car before you end up as the poster boy for Sing-Sing.’

‘But--’ Stiles tapered off as he heard a siren in the distance. The bank’s alarm seemed to be ringing directly inside his head, filling his brain, drying his mouth and drowning out the frantic beating of his heart.

‘Jesus, Stiles, are you coming or what?’ Derek leaned over and pushed the passenger door open. ‘Stragglers get picked off.’

‘Okay. Okay. Oh, my God. Okay!’ He jumped in, bag clutched to his chest so tightly the zipper was crushed painfully to his chest. ‘Oh, my God. Oh, my God,’ he muttered, as his body was thrown back against his seat as Derek hit the gas.

Derek drove at a breakneck place through the town and didn’t slow down until they were miles into the barren Arizona roads.

Stiles’ heart jackhammered within him. He kept his knees pressed firmly against the panel in case it was an epidemic and was the very thing which pushed that manic glint in Derek’s eyes into something more violent.

The scenery blurred past, the trees stretching into what looked like prying limbs, trying to pull Stiles back. The silence was maddening. Just waiting for the explosion of a Colt to break it. Oh, God. He was going to die. He was going to rot in a shallow grave in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a bullet in the brain for company. He had never told Lydia Martin he loved her. He had never even _kissed_ a girl. Oh, God. Scott would never know what had happened to him. And his dad. He couldn’t even think about his father.

‘Okay, you can just -- just let me out here, I’ll hitchhike to the next town,’ he whispered when finally the quiet was too deafening, his eyes still closed tight. ‘I promise I won’t tell anyone. I promise.’

‘Quit your whining, boy!’ Derek said sharply. ‘Didn’t I just show you an _adventure_? Isn’t that what you wanted?’

 Stiles’ eyes snapped open in anger. ‘Not on the back of other people suffering, for Chrissake!’

‘Oh, please,’ scoffed Derek. ‘I ain’t hurtin’ ordinary folk. And I ain’t gonna live and die with ordinary folk, I tell you.’’ He glanced over at Stiles, his expression hardening. ‘Spending all your life making peanuts in exchange for your life. Well, that ain’t for me. I’ve got plans!’

 Stiles shook his head. ‘Everybody’s got plans!’

‘Everybody’s got _dreams_ ,’ he sneered. ‘I’ve got plans.’

Stiles considered. ‘Have you done time?’

 Derek nodded. ‘Robbery. Auto theft.’ He gestured to the car. ‘I like to keep busy.’ No serial killing. So that was a relief.

‘Well,’ said Stiles with a shaky whistle. ‘Your hobby list has certainly expanded from ball games and the flicks.’

Derek smirked. ‘A hobby, you call it? A hobby, tryin’ to scratch a living -- _any_ sort of living -- in this day and age?.’ He glanced back at Stiles, eyes dark. ‘‘All that’s out there are the homeless and the hungry. Banks taking farms from hard workin’ people like your father. Well, I don’t want no part of that. I plan on being a man of means. All I need to do is pull a couple of big jobs every few years and that’ll be me set. I’ll be bigger than Al Capone.’ He snatched out a hand and grabbed at Stiles’. ‘You’ll see. I’ll have the power.’

Stiles looked down at Derek’s fingers that were curled around his wrist. ‘And what about me?’ he asked in a small voice. ‘What about me?’

Derek frowned, his head tilted. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Why did you insist on me coming with you? Taking me to New York.’ Stiles pulled his hand away. ‘I’m a witness. I could turn you in. I could get you caught.’

Derek shook his head. ‘No. No, you wouldn’t, Stiles. Do you know why? Derek reached across for his wrist again. ‘You’re like me. You were made for more than this world wants to give you. I saw that defiance in you the night at the gas station. I see what you could become.’

Stiles snorted. ‘A bank robber?’

‘A name. A someone. _A headline **.**_ We live, we die and it makes not a goddamn bit of difference whether we did it right or wrong, so why not make it worth _something._ You want to be another Joe, trying to make ends meet in this backyard of a world, go ahead? Be my guest. But I don’t think you do, Stiles. I think you want to leave a mark. I think you want your footprints to remain no matter how much rain, wind and dust they throw down upon it.’

‘Actually, I quite want to avoid the hotsquat, but thank you for playing.’

‘You don’t go to the chair for taking back what’s rightfully ours, Stiles.’

‘Maybe not. But you don’t get invited to the White House or tea and cucumber sandwiches, either, so if it’s all the same to you I’ll pass.’

‘You give me your moral talk, but I see it in your eyes.’ Derek smiled at him confidently. ‘Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you ain’t marvellin’ over how easy that was, and you ain’t thinking about how you’d spend a year toiling away in your daddy’s store for the work of five minutes here, with me. Tell me that a gun to your head ain’t preferable to watchin’ your dreams turn to dust opposite some damned _corn field_ as you grow old.’

Stiles opened his mouth to protest.

Derek pressed his hand once more, then let it go. ‘Don’t lie to me, Stiles. I told you; I see it in your eyes.’

‘I’m not-- My father was the -- _the damn Sheriff_. I can’t just grab a tommy gun and start turning over banks!’

‘ _Was_ the Sheriff. Now he’s just another old man with stories of glory days. Small time.’ Derek shrugged. ‘Life passes you by in a flash, my friend. Are you gonna grab it with both hands or you just gonna watch it go?’

Stiles gazed at the money in the back seat, and then at the gun. He swallowed. He raised his eyes to meet Derek’s own inscrutable gaze. His chest felt constricted; he was dizzy from excitement; his stomach churned.

‘You want to write the news, Stiles? Or do you want to _be_ it?’

He bit his lip. ‘Yeah,’ he murmured.

Derek raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, more forcefully. ‘Yeah, I’m in.’


End file.
